My Kitten Is Gone

On August 10, 2001, James was born. Separated from his feral mama and siblings, he was found about three days later under a bush in Yuma, Arizona, screaming his fuzzy little head off.
My friend Katie rescued him, took him to a vet to get his runny little eye fixed, fed him infant kitten formula, babied him, started talking to me about him and sending photos. We thought he was a she at first.
By September, he was mine.
Now he's a full grown tomcat. He's all muscle, weighing in at around 15 pounds and counting.
Unlike his much older brother Bart, James is an acrobat. No distance is too far to leap, no fear in tackling any challenge.
When I am at my desk, he jumps on the back of my chair, despite the fact that it's only 3" wide. When I am asleep, he jumps on my chest, despite the fact that it scares the shit out of me and he gets a stern lecture.
When he wants me to wake up, he puts his pink, wet nose on mine and meows.
When company comes over, he strolls up and down them like he owns them.
He comes when I whistle, when he feels like it.
I am in love with him, bad habits and all.
But soon his baby pictures will come down from the top of my blog and be replaced with a more appropriate graphic. He's not a baby anymore.
My baby kitten is gone, and I miss him.